Serve

I’m in connection with a woman whose avatar says “MEN EXIST TO SERVE WOMEN.” I’ve started the discussion in which we may or may not get to the bottom of what she means by that, and by making it her standalone tagline. SHe says men on dating apps don’t know what they are looking for. I responded that sometimes the rules of a strict playbook are made to be broken. I didn’t say it quite that eloquently, but I followed the sentiment by adding that I am prone to abusive relationships, and maybe my habit of diving into things just to see what happens is to blame.

I don’t think I could be anyone’s slave, not even as a joke. But a sub, yes. Define sub, though. That’s where it gets frisky. I think of myself taking care of someone mentally, physically, and financially, although I am in no position to make that last commitment. Not anymore.

I am at work after 2 days away. 2 days of rainy away, with a visit to a Podiatrist who told me absolutely nothing I did not already know. It was somewhat illuminating to see the inside of a building I’ve passed by many times over. There are many types of businesses at that building, and some mildly interesting artwork. 36-36 33rd Street.

I feel still, but a little off today. Drugged to my usual 1.5mg of panic pill and whatever dosages of the BP meds. When the assistant took my BP yesterday it was 138/80. I whispered to myself “That’s a lie. That’s artificial blood pressure brought down by pharmaceuticals. Who knew a foot doctor would care about my BP…?

I wandered through a bunch piano music yesterday. The arrangements of some Strauss songs by a pianist/arranger I can’t remember the name of were impressive. Scarlatti’s sonatas are an endless source of amazement. I’ll never play them all and that is fine with me.

It seems as if an opera or theater singer has moved in next door. It is only the second musician I know of to live in the building since I’ve been there, over 25 years now. A ‘cellist lived downstairs for a couple of years, I think. Other than that I’m not aware of any other musicians besides me in that building. Until now. He also plays some piano, making his the second piano in the building. Like it matters. It’s just that it starts to feel like the conservatory practice building at times.

At the Parc Lincoln I lived next door to an opera singer. He was no ordinary opera singer. He was the worst opera singer that ever lived. His bleating, squealing, castrato-sounding exertions were nauseating to me. I honestly preferred the sound from another room, of a dude with emphysema whose hacking cough and wheezing was a predictable, calming alternative to the opera singer.

The opera singe could actually sing normally. I never knew why he went off on the wheezing and painful-sounding path. It’s too soon to say where this singer next door stands in the pantheon of neighbor musicians. Maybe we will end up collaborating. I always worked well with singers.

I’ve been keeping at it with uploading to archive.org. I hesitated getting in too deep with archive. They ignored all my attempts to secure work for them as a scanning technician, a job I am born for. So I scanned all this good stuff for my own website, discovering in the course of time that it will one day disappear not long after I disappear. I don’t know if archive.org is truly permanent but it feels moreso than any infrastructure I have access to.

A batch of Russian Payphone Cards should bring joy to someone somewhere. A copy of a Queens Chronicle that promised “A Prettier Plaza” should get a laugh from certain segments of the population that experience the overpowering noise of the subways passing over the green space deposited onto Queens Plaza some years ago.